


In The Low Lamp Light, I Was Free

by the_cheshire_cat_grin



Category: The Goldfinch (2019), The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: It's bittersweet my dudes, M/M, who's ready to ache?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-10-27 11:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20759708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_cheshire_cat_grin/pseuds/the_cheshire_cat_grin
Summary: In which Theo spends several days healing at Boris' house in Antwerp.





	1. Chapter 1

Between the whirlwind of Amsterdam and the inevitable shitstorm awaiting me in New York, Antwerp felt like a gentle dream, a hazy unreality of late nights, movie marathons, and plenty of food. Gyuri stopped by at one point, seeming pleased by my wellbeing, and graciously accepted back his watch and ring. “Should almost let you keep them,” he said, fastening the shimmering band to his wrist. “All you do for us, for Boris here. You are hero. You more than earned them.”

I shook my head, fiercely. I had outgrown holding onto things that didn’t belong to me. At any rate, I was put off by the ostentatious style. It suited me no more than a wide-brim cowboy hat.

Victor stopped by as well, with Shirley T. in tow. “You save Boris,” the boy said, staring up at me with wide, doe-like eyes. “You save us all. Thank you.”

Victor said much of the same, with less sentiment, and, after talking to Boris about what they planned to do next, the door shut behind them with a click, and it was just the two of us once again. To the best of his abilities, he played the part of caretaker, which mostly consisted of throwing pillows at me and forcing me to eat, which, after some time, I began to do of my own volition. My body was still weak from both the illness and the drugs, so I took it slow at first. However, as time wore on, and my strength slowly returned to me, I found that I had never been so hungry in my life.

“You are cleaning me out, Potter,” Boris joked one evening, seeing my poke my head into the fridge for something to eat. “You will eat fridge if not careful!”

We went out some nights, mostly to old dive bars, tables dirty, cracks slithering up the walls like vines. However, he took me to some fancier locales every now and then, but that was more for me than anything else. I could see it in his narrowed eyes, his subtle sneer. He would never let his guard down in places like this. He made his home in the darker corridors, in seedier venues. He was like some nocturnal animal, scurrying away from the light, digging deeper and deeper until he was enveloped in a comfortable darkness, hidden from prying eyes. Darkness meant safety. Darkness meant home.

This, too, was reflected in his house, curtains drawn day and night, lights burning low. The light switches may as well have not existed. If he did not have the sunlight, then he used table lamps, bathing the walls in a dreamy orange glow. Sitting on his threadbare couch, his elbow digging into my side with every joke, I almost felt like myself again, whoever that was.

I think Boris realized this, too. While as wise-cracking and boisterous as ever, he was surprisingly gentle with me, soft-spoken , as if I were tiny and feral, and he did not want to frighten me away. If it were anyone else, perhaps I would have felt insulted, but I needed this, and he knew that, and so he remained as he was.

During my final evening in Antwerp, he was oddly sentimental, grasping my hands and sighing dramatically. “Ah, New York. City that never sleeps. Are you certain you want this?”

“Yeah.” I knew what I needed to do now. It was clear as a golden path before, and it was a path that began in New York, with Hobie. The path would always be there, effervescent and steady, but I would prefer to begin my journey as soon as possible. I owed that to a lot of people.

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, understood. So, your day then.” He threw his arms wide. “We do what you want, whatever you want! Antwerp is yours for twenty four hours more.”

It was decided, then and there, that there was nothing I wanted more than to settle in for a movie marathon, fridge stocked full of delivery pizza and beer. Christmas had come and gone, but the holiday films remained, and we settled in, food and drink covering every available surface of the coffee table as we argued whether Die Hard was a Christmas movie or not.

“Is fighting movie!” Boris exclaimed, waving his beer this way and that, spilling a bit on his hand. “Big explosions! Big guns! No more Christmas movie than me being Christmas elf!”

“It takes place during Christmas, though.” It felt immensely satisfying to be arguing about things that didn’t matter.

“Many things take place on Christmas!” he objected, brushing his hair out of his face with an impatient flick of the wrist. “Big police chase on Christmas day does not make real world into ‘Wonderful Life’ film!”

We decided to agree to disagree, and settled on A Christmas Story, where he preceded to babble the entire time. “Is dangerous times, Potter. This child wants _gun _as present? Yes, yes, not real gun, but still, is frightening thing. This hunger for violence starts young.”

I wasn’t so sure I agreed, but I let him talk. It was like we were boys again, watching movies, staying up as late as possible, Boris nudging me, saying, “Oh, her. She’s beautiful, no?” It was perfect. I wanted to live in this moment where time no longer existed, and we could watch movie after movie, living in the dark, cozy cave that was Boris’ house, blissfully unaware of the outside world.

I must have dozed off at some point, because the next thing I knew, I was blinking, and the credits were rolling, cheery music filling the air as Boris snored peacefully against my shoulder. There was no telling what time it was, only that it was late. Not wanting to disturb him, I stayed where I was, listening to the steady rhythm of his breaths, chest rising and falling against my arm. Although I couldn’t bare to admit it, I had missed these moments between us, lighthearted and easy. Without thinking about it too much, I buried my nose in his hair, inhaling deeply.

The musty scent of cigarettes, sweat, and something else, a deeper, almost spice-like scent that was uniquely Boris. I closed my eyes and, gently, gently, I rubbed my cheek against the downy softness of his hair. Something swelled in me then, something large and unnamable, as familiar to me as an amicable neighbor I had known for years.

“You are like cat with all that rubbing,” he suddenly murmured. “Am surprised you are not purring.”

I pulled back, my face hot with embarrassment. Between the two of us, I had never been overly affectionate. “Sorry.”

“Is fine.” He burrowed closer, his nose pressing against my neck, making me shiver. “Is nice. Warm.” He was quiet for so long I thought he had fallen back to sleep, and I was just about to reach for the blanket he kept draped over the couch when he spoke again. “I miss this.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I decided to be honest. “So do I.”

Boris sighed, his breath tickling my skin. “I confess, I think about it sometimes. Nights in your room, quiet, peaceful, muffling laughter with pillows so as not to wake your father or Xandra.” He tapped a finger against my leg. “It felt like home, real home.”

Again, words escaped me. Slowly, I threaded my fingers with his, trying to convey what it was that I was feeling. I had expected them to be calloused and rough, but they were surprisingly smooth, though scarred in some places, not unlike the hands of his youth. Swallowing hard, I said, “I think about it too. All those nights, laughing and drinking. That was the happiest I had been in so long. I finally felt like I was alive, instead of just…existing.”

He sighed hard, so hard my fingers tightened around his. “Oh, Potter,” he murmured, almost sadly. “Do not say such things. It is too hard to hear.”

“Why?” I was confused, especially since he was the one who brought it up.

“Mmm.” Slowly, so slowly it was barely perceptible, he nuzzled closer until I felt his lips against my neck. “Is nothing. Forget it.”

“Not nothing.” I was nervous. I had been down this road before. Pulling my hand away a bit, I tentatively ran my thumb along his palm. “This isn’t nothing, Boris. I think, maybe we need to talk about this.”

“And say what?” Finally, he pulled away, looking me in the eye. “What is left to say?” He shook his head sadly. “You and I both know how this ends. It can only be heartache. You have hurt so much already. You don’t need more pain.”

I felt the absence of his warmth like an ache, like I was drowning, and my lungs were screaming for air. When I leaned forward, it was almost like some unseen, unknowable force was pulling me to him, lifting my hands to cradle his face, pressing my mouth against his. It felt primal, this need to be close to him, as if it were fated to be since long before even my earliest ancestors were born.

When he pulled away, his eyes were heavy, half-lidded, as if awakening from a deep sleep. He seemed about to say something, then stopped himself. Instead, he grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me back to him, kissing me slowly, deeply, as if trying to savor the taste of me. “Theo,” he murmured against my lips, and the sound of my name on his tongue, barely audible, no more than a breath, only made me pull him closer.

Suddenly, he pulled away, hands on either side of my face, his expression one of pain. “Fuck,” he growled, half to himself. “Okay. Shit.”

I swallowed nervously. We had never kissed like this before. Had I upset him? “Boris?” I ventured hesitantly. “It’s okay. I mean, we can stop if you want.”

“Stop?” He laughed breathlessly. “God, no. If up to me, your clothes would already be on floor, but…no. Am trying to show restraint.”

My heart was pounding. “What’s stopping you?”

“Don’t.” His fingers were digging into my skin, a delicious sting that left me breathless. “Don’t tempt me, Theo. Am trying to be gentleman here. Am trying to make this easy.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t care about ‘easy’, Boris.” I ran a tentative finger along his collarbone, peeking out from beneath his t-shirt.

He closed his eyes with a shiver, and seeing him like that, so full of longing, broke something within me. Without another thought, I crawled into his lap and kissed him hard, trying to show him the hunger in me that had only been growing over the years.

He gasped against my mouth, and, seeming to make up his mind, he pulled me closer, fingers digging into the small of my back. It ached, having him so close, yet never close enough. My fingers tangled in his hair, his breath hot against my mouth, it was maddening. Almost against my will, I’d begun to grind against him, my hands falling to his shoulders, our foreheads pressed together.

“Oh, god, Theo,” he murmured against my lips. Suddenly, he pulled away. “Not here. Come, follow me to bedroom. I have stuff there.”

My hand in his, he led me to his small bedroom at the back of the house. While he fumbled to turn on the lights, I looked around. Save for the light that had reached down the hall from the living room, it was dimly lit. Even so, I was surprised to see a wide variety of books overflowing onto every available surface. It was too dark to read the titles, but they varied in size, from pocket novel to textbook, and I wondered how he found the time to read them all.

Finally, the room was awash in a dreamy golden glow, casting strange shadows against the walls. Boris straightened, his eyes on me, and for several moments neither of us moved. I was afraid of breaking the spell, as if, by moving, he would suddenly shake his head, that heavy, intoxicating look fading from his eyes as he explained that, although he loved me, he did not love me _like that._

He bit his lip, appearing indecisive as he looked me up and down, as if trying to memorize what I looked like, as if he may never see me again.

We went to each other at the exact same time, coming together and falling back against the bed like two galaxies colliding. In the darkest moments of night, when not a soul was awake, when I found myself aching for him the most, I often wondered how this moment would be. Desperate, perhaps, like when we were children, pining and lonely. However, I was endeared, almost overwhelmingly so, by how gentle he was with me. When my shirt came off, he pressed a kiss to my chest, just over my heart. When he slipped off my jeans, he pressed a kiss to my inner thighs, making me shiver. My desire for him spiked then, and I sat up, pulling off his shirt, tracing my fingers along the marred, tattooed skin.

“Oh, Theo,” he breathed, sounding shaky as he pressed kiss after kiss to my collarbone. “So soft and lovely. Have always thought so. You are just like goldfinch, pretty and soft, but quick, too.”

I dug my nails into his back and pulled him on top of me. He reached out then, fumbling in the drawer of his bedside table for what I assumed to be the “stuff” he had mentioned earlier. I didn’t bother to watch while he got everything together. Instead, I kissed every inch of skin I could reach, his cheek, his nose, his temple. And when he was finally inside of me, I threw my head back and moaned, more full of bliss than I had ever thought possible.

He whispered to himself the entire time, words I didn’t understand. He said something that sounded like lyubov’ over and over, familiar in a way I couldn’t bare to think about.

When it was over, he collapsed on top of me, trembling, breathing hard. I was in no better state, limbs splayed, panting as if I had just ran a marathon. Slowly, shakily, I raised my arm, threading my fingers through his hair, pushing back the messy strands that fell into his eyes.

“Jesus, Potter.” His breath was hot against my skin. “I think I may never walk again.”

I laughed, tousling his dark curls. “Well, I am very sorry for your sacrifice.” I pressed a kiss to the top of his head, unable to keep myself from touching him.

“Was worth it, I think.” He lifted his head just enough to look me in the eye, and I felt something inside me shift at the heavy look in his eyes, unabashed in their adoration. It gave everything between us a sense of reality, instead of the hazy dream-like aura that lingered from our childhood.

“I think so too.”

He hummed happily and settled back in, his breath tickling my skin as he traced the lines of my chest with his finger.

I could have stayed there forever, listening to him breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against mine. It had begun to snow during the night, and I watched it glimmer and swirl through the air, feeling more at peace than I had in a long time.

“You could stay, you know,” he mumbled at one point. “It is not like I need money, am quite rich. We both are. It could just be this, all the time, you and me. We could travel, watch movies. Like when we were kids, but better.”

I ran my fingers down his back, saying nothing. We both knew this wouldn’t last, couldn’t last. He was too deep into a world that horrified and disgusted me in equal measure, and, at any rate, I had too much to do. I had wrecked a lot of lives in the past eight years, and it would take at least that long to make everything right again. I felt more than heard Boris sigh, and I knew he wouldn’t fight me on this. He was already on his path to redemption. It was time to begin mine.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nine months after Antwerp, Theo attempts to adjust to a life of relative normalcy. However, he can't but feel like something is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter became much longer than it's predecessor, so much so that I had to save some events for chapter three, which, I can promise you, will be following soon. Enjoy!

**Chapter Two**

Rain pattered against the window in a steady, soothing drone, monotonous enough that it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay awake. Work had been fairly steady today. As summer finally began to give way to autumn, people were beginning to shop around for prospective Christmas presents. However, the rain had sent people scurrying off, nestling away in the cozy, comforting warmth of nearby diners and dives instead of braving the chill for an antique chest. As a result, I had plenty of time on my hands, as well as plenty of boredom. Chin in hand, I stared out the window, watching the raindrops chase each other down the windowpane.

I had spent the better part of this year traveling all over the world, meeting with past clients, buying back the frauds I had sold them. I had expected many of them to be insulted, furious, and some of them were, but most of them accepted my humble apologies with understanding and grace. “A perfectly understandable mistake,” they would tell me. “You’re still so young, and very new to antiques. These things happen. Don’t give it another thought.”

I was scheduled to meet with my next client in about two months in Italy, in a beautiful rural community just north of Venice. Until then, however, I found myself twiddling my thumbs, unsure of what to do with all my extra free time. I had begun to read more, but often I was at a loss of which genre I desired. Academia made me feel stupid, with its grand philosophies that rarely made any sense, and the dark stories of Poe, which had fascinated me as a child, now made my stomach churn with discomfort. Eventually, I found Tolkien to be one of the few authors whose works I could stand for more than ten minutes. I read and reread The Hobbit, a childhood favorite, and I even ventured into C.S Lewis. I could feel the echoes of each other in their respective works, and I found it incredible that, even without meaning to, the people they cared about most in the world came through like whispers in their stories.

At my feet, Popper heaved a heavy, sorrowful sigh, and I bent to pat his head. “Me, too, buddy,” I murmured, tapping a finger against my copy of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, a book Boris had once referred to as “bible fanfiction”.

“The children, they are apostles!” he had insisted, many years ago as we sat swinging in that barren desert playground. “And the boy, the little one, he is Judas! Betrays family for chocolates, not even good chocolates. Have you had Turkish delights? Very disgusting. And the lion, I tell you, the lion is Jesus. It is- ah, what is the word? Fursona! Yes, Jesus is furry.”

It was my turn to sigh. I thought about him every day, every hour, every minute. Every thought came back to him, like a roundabout, ever circling back. I had not seen him since last year, at his house in Antwerp. Roughly nine months had passed since then, and even now, my face grew warm at the memory of his hands on my chest, his lips against the hollow base of my throat. His eyes, heavy-lidded and bright as he stared at me like I was worth more than every piece of artwork in the world, both lost and found. His breath had been hot in my ear as he whispered sweet nothings in Russian, nearly unintelligible save for one word. It had been beautiful, the most beautiful moment of my life. It had been nothing new, to tell the truth, but it had felt real, more so than anything we had ever done before. Less the desperate scrambling of two lonely children, and more the result of mutual pining, years’ worth of longing that had exploded like a dam, drowning both of us under its weight until we had no choice but to succumb. I longed to return there, to that moment, snow swirling through the air as he made me his, just as I made him mine.

We weren’t in contact much these days, sometimes we would go a month without speaking, but every now and then he would send me pictures, dumb selfies from far away countries. In return, I would send him book recommendations, old books mostly, fantasy settings. I would make playlists on Spotify, and he did the same, and I would spend hours on my bed, eyes closed as I let the songs that captivated him wash over me. Sometimes I could almost imagine he was there with me, watching me, trying to gauge my reaction, smirking when he knew I liked a song, rolling his eyes when he knew I didn’t.

I missed him. I missed him. I didn’t want to, but I did. It had felt so right, the decision to leave, to return to New York, to right the wrongs I had accumulated over the years, and I had told him as much, the morning after, as he lay curled in my arms, clinging to me like I would disappear, and I to him. It hurt, but this thing between us, it was beautiful and dangerous, like a storm. We were too alike, and yet we were polar opposites. He reveled in the darkness, and as enticing as it appeared, drunk beyond reason, lost in each other’s arms, I knew I would die there. My peace was in routine, in the mundane, and I knew it drove him mad. He would never be the kind of person to settle down, have a routine, work a day job. He needed to roam, and I needed a space to call home. He was feral, and I had domesticated myself.

He had looked at me, eyes so sad I had to look away. “I understand,” he assured me. “Space is best thing for both us.” He came with me to the airport, and when I reached the gate, he kissed both my cheeks. “Do not be stranger. Antwerp will always be here for you, as will I.”

I had hugged him hard, so hard I can feel it now, steady and warm. I missed him. I knew I was doing the right thing, but I ached for him. I realized then that, just as some good could perhaps come from the bad, there was also some bad that could come with the good.

Several hours later, one of the ancient grandfather clocks chimed the hour, and I stood, ready to lock up. Nothing appealed to me more than curling up on the sofa with my book, a hot cup of tea silently steaming away on the coffee table. I had finally stopped drinking, but every day was a battle, and when I found the cravings to be more than I could bare, Hobie suggested I switch to tea, which, surprisingly, did a decent job of curbing my cravings.

As I headed toward the door, I saw Popper beside his water dish, dry as a bone. “How long has this been empty?” I wondered, bending down to pick it up. “You could have said something, you know.”

Popper said nothing, only stared at me mournfully until, finally, I sighed and went to the back to refill it. The bowl was about halfway full when I heard the bell jingle at the front of the store, and I sighed, annoyed. Not a soul had come by in the past three hours, and _now _someone wanted to come in? “Sorry, we’re closed!”

“Oh no!” a familiar voice called out. “Now where will I find perfect mahogany chest?”

I froze. Slowly, I set down Popper’s water dish and returned to the front of the store, and there, on his hands and knees, making kissing noises at the dog, was Boris. He looked just the same as he always did, hair a mess, dark shadows under his eyes, wrinkled button-down shirt, as if he had grabbed it from the floor. In that moment, he was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Boris saw me and stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. I was surprised to see how nervous he looked. For a few moments, neither of us said anything. Then, finally, he cleared his throat. “Hello, Potter.”

It was instinctual, the need to go to him. Before I even realized what I was doing, I was across the room and in his arms, embracing him hard, my nose buried in his thick mess of curls.

I could feel him relax against me, and he wrapped his arms around my waist. “Oh, good,” he breathed. “Was scared. You said we should stay apart, but I was in neighborhood, and I couldn’t leave without seeing you.” He pulled back a bit, staring at me with dark, heavy eyes. “Is fine, yes? I missed you.”

All at once, I wanted to weep. “Boris, you’re always welcome here,” I told him, earnest. “God, I missed you too. I missed you so much.” I bit my lip, hating how pathetic I sounded, especially considering it had been my idea that we stay apart.

“Oh, you softy.” He took a step back, looking me up and down. “You look good. Healthy. Practically glowing.”

I felt my face heat at the compliment. “Yeah, I feel better. Stopped drinking, actually. Drugs, too.”

His eyes widened. “No shit? That is amazing!” He punched my arm. “Look at you, like saint! Am so proud of you! Me, could not stop if I tried. Am alcoholic, through and through. Drugs, though, do not care for them as much these days. Have not used in few weeks. Withdrawals are shit, but hey.” He shrugged. “Is life, you know?”

“Yeah.” I couldn’t stop staring at him. I could see the tremors in his hands, the light sheen of sweat at his temple, but he looked good. More in focus. “What are you doing in New York?”

“This and that.” He brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Nothing particularly exciting. But hey, Gyuri talks about you all the time. I will tell him you say hi, yes?”

“Yes, of course. Listen, you wanna stay for dinner?” The words were out of my mouth before I had even finished forming the thought. “Hobie made his crock pot chicken and noodles. Comfort food, you know? Since it’s getting colder outside.”

“Is that what I am smelling?” His face lit up. “Yes, would love to!”

I left him to play with Popchyk while I went downstairs to find Hobie, who was hard at work screwing a new leg onto a dining chair. “That looks good,” I said, nodding towards the chair.

“It’s far from finished.” He set the chair upright, studying it for a moment. “Still needs sanding. How was business upstairs?”

“Not bad.” I hesitated, unsure how to phrase it. “So, listen. Boris is here. I told him he could stay for dinner. Is that alright?”

Hobie glanced up at me. “Oh. Well, how about that. I thought he was out of the country?”

“He’s here for work, I think.”

I saw in his eyes the barest hint of disapproval, but he said nothing. Instead, he wiped his hands down with a dusty rag and stood. “Well, we got plenty of food. Tell him to head on up. I’ll be along shortly.”

I nodded and went back upstairs. Although too polite to say so, I knew Hobie didn’t trust Boris. He was too chaotic, with a set of morals that didn’t line up with his own. However, I think he could see, even then, how much he meant to me, and so he held his tongue.

I led Boris upstairs, Popchyk right at our feet as he babbled on about all the places he had been since we last saw each other. Spain, Japan, Brazil, South Africa. “You think Vegas was hot? I burned alive in South Africa, but Brazil, my god, Brazil was worse. It was wet heat. Felt like I was drowning entire time.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. He was such a baby when it came to heat. Not for the first time, I wondered if his hatred of the sun was an inherited trait rather than a learned one, a quirk passed down from dozens of generations.

Dinner passed by pleasantly enough. He talked the entire time, and Hobie was quick to fall victim to his charm. “Spain, huh? Now, that’s an envy. What was it like?”

“Am afraid I did not see much,” Boris answered around a mouthful of mashed potatoes. “Stayed in rural town, mostly. Some no name place by the sea, a little north of Barcelona. But, god, was beautiful. Most beautiful place by far.”

They talked for a while, Hobie about the Spanish architecture, and Boris about the time he got chased by a gang of feral cats. I watched them, smiling as I felt a warm feeling growing in my chest. It felt right, all of us being together like this.

After dinner, Hobie waved us away to clean up, and Boris and I sat on the sofa, talking about everything. “You are still reading furry Jesus book?” he exclaimed when I told him about C.S Lewis. “Jesus, Potter. Has been months!”

“I’m rereading it!” I said, laughing. “And he’s not a furry, Jesus Christ! He’s a lion who happens to have traits similar to Jesus!”

“Is Jesus fursona!”

“Ok, this conversation is over.”

“Because you know I am right!”

I laughed. Every time he spoke, it was like we were children again, giggling and scheming in my room, trying not to wake my dad or Xandra. “Speaking of Jesus, I noticed some gospel on your playlist. What’s that about?”

“What? I like powerful women’s voices. Do not judge with your weird bog music. With playlist like yours, I think you might be witch.”

I rolled my eyes. “It’s just Florence + The Machine, dude.”

“Not Florence. Love Florence! Woman after my own heart. No, that Hozier fellow. Singing of death and decomposing in fields. Is morbid.”

“It’s not about the actual decomposing bodies,” I objected. “It’s a metaphor for intimacy.”

“Whatever.” He brushed the hair out of his eyes with an impatient flick of the wrist. “I do not need to be eaten by flies to know what intimacy is. That is what sex is for.”

I swallowed hard, feeling the heat return to my face. “Intimacy isn’t just about sex,” I said, unable to meet his gaze.

“I know.” He stared at me for a moment before finally looking away. “Was just one example.”

It was silent for a few moments until, finally, he spoke again. “Anyway, your girl, what’s her name? Ah, Mitski! Pretty face, even prettier voice. She is wise.”

“I thought you’d like her.” I pulled out my phone and started scrolling. “She dropped a new album a few weeks ago, but I haven’t gotten around to listening to it yet. I’m still stuck on Puberty 2.”

“Ah, phenomenal album,” he murmured, looking wistful. “Thursday Girl, Bet on Losing Dogs, but Crack Baby, now that is a beautiful song. She just gets it, you know? The ache of loving someone, and adjusting to life without them.”

I bit my lip. “Yeah. She gets it.” I hesitated for a moment. “Wanna listen?”

He nodded, and I went to find my earbuds. We sat there for hours, listening to one album after another, the smooth, comforting voice lamenting her heartache, loneliness, and nostalgia. Her newest album, however, was a touch more optimistic, but it still had a tone of melancholy, which I found strangely comforting. I kept sneaking glances every now and then, trying to gauge Boris’ reaction. He appeared enraptured, eyes closed, swaying almost imperceptibly from side to side. _And I don’t want your pity, I just want somebody near me. Guess I’m a coward. I just want to feel alright._

I looked up, and there was Hobie. “Don’t want to interrupt,” he said quietly. “Just heading to bed.”

“Okay. We’ll be quiet.”

He nodded, looking as if he wanted to say something else. However, he only smiled and headed down the hallway toward his room. The door clicked shut with a note of finality, and it was just me and Boris once more.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes, looking thoughtful. “Hobie is good man. Protective of you. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

I had, but not all at once. It had been a gradual realization, like a subtle shift in temperature. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I haven’t given him plenty of reason to be protective.”

“Oh, he knows you are good man. Is why he likes you so much, and hates me.”

“Hobie doesn’t hate you.”

“Dislikes me, then. He doesn’t want me to corrupt your poor, innocent soul.”

I rolled my eyes. “None of that statement is true. Hobie likes you.” _But not too much_, I thought silently.

“Sure, Potter. Whatever you say.” He looked around then, as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep. “Oh, when did it become so dark? What time is it?”

I looked down at my phone, startled to see how late it had become. “Just past 11:30.”

“Late to be inside, not so late to be outside.” He glanced at me. “You want to go out? I know this place in Hell’s Kitchen, very good food, very strange people, but good strange.”

Part of me wanted to. I hated to admit it, but part of me missed our drug-crazed nights, laughing hysterically as the world spun around us like a merry-go-round out of control. I knew that wasn’t what he was suggesting, but I knew my limits. All it would take to fall back into that world would be one whiff of vodka, the sight of the people hidden in dark corners, heads bent over tables covered in white lines. Even now, it made me itch with desire. “Um, maybe not. Sorry, I just don’t think it’d be a good idea, you know?” At his look of confusion, I explained. “It’s just, I want to stay clean, and I can’t if I’m like, surrounded by it, you know? I’m just not strong enough. I might never be.”

“You are strongest person I know,” he said earnestly. “But, yes, I understand. Of course.” He leaned back against the sofa, looking a little lost. “Okay, then. Should I bid you good night?”

“Right now?” Panic surged through me like a bolt of lightening. He had just come back to me. I wasn’t ready to say good bye to him yet. “I mean, it’s not that late. We could, I don’t know, go for a walk or something?”

“A walk?”

“Or something. It doesn’t have to be a walk.” I wracked my brain for something to do. “There’s this ice cream place nearby. Are you still hungry?”

“Potter,” he said with a grin. “Am always hungry.”

* * *

It was a nice ice cream shop, just hidden enough that the tourists couldn’t find it, but it was a staple for the locals. We weren’t the only ones there, and the air was full of pleasant chatter and the sweet smell of waffle cones as Boris launched into another grand story, waving his spoon around like a conductor.

“…And Shirley, he is beautiful boy, but he does not like men, you know? But these men, they would not back off, begging to buy him food, drink, whatever he want. And Vitya, well, he is very protective of Shirley, like big brother. So, he pretends to be Shirley’s boyfriend, wraps his arm around him, asks if these boys are bothering him.” He took another bite of ice cream before continuing. “And Vitya, not very big, but imposing, you know? Only fools challenge him. So they see him, and they bolt, tails between legs like dogs. And Shirley, he is laughing so hard, he nearly falls over.”

I was laughing. “Poor Shirely.”

“Poor nothing! He got free food and humiliate pedophiles. He had wonderful time.”

“Are they here?” Strangely enough, I missed Boris’ little gang. I ran into Miriam every now and then, but other than that, I had no way of knowing how everyone was doing.

“No, is just me. They are in California.”

“What are they doing there?”

“Business.” He grinned. “Caught wind of some stolen pieces up north by Oregon. Some paintings, mostly, but textiles, too. Even jewelry.” He took another bite of ice cream. “This bounty hunter business is quite lucrative, Potter. They practically throw money at us.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole business, but it was certainly a step up from what he had been doing before. “You’re like a cowboy, I guess,” I said finally. “Breaking the law for the good of the public.”

He laughed. “I love it! Yes, we are modern day Robin Hood, American Robin Hood. Steal from rich and give to public, and if we get paid along the way, well, is what we call a fairytale ending.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “Whatever, man. I’m glad you’ve found your calling.”

“And you? Have you found yours?”

I thought about this for a while. It would be a long time before I bought back all the frauds I had sold, but until then, I had the shop, I had Hobie, and, every once in a while, I even had Pippa, whose bright eyes and funny smile still, to this day, made me melt. At any rate, it wasn’t as if we were struggling anymore. Boris’ surprise Christmas present had essentially ensured that both myself and Hobie would never have to work another day for the rest of our lives, but I enjoyed the routine of it all. Hobie was even beginning to let me put some pieces together from time to time, restorations, mostly, but every now and then I got to try my hand at some changelings. “Yeah. I think I’ve found my calling.”

Boris smiled then, and I drew in a breath. He looked happy, happier than I had ever seen him. “Good, that’s good. You deserve it.”

I smiled, unsure of what to say, and he reached out then, gently placing his hand over mine. “You do,” he insisted. “I know you do not think so, but you deserve so much good. Me, I do bad things. I know this. But you, only ever thinking of others. All your bad things were to help good people. That is worth something.”

I was at a loss for words. I didn’t believe a single word he said, but that didn’t stop that large, unknowable feeling from returning to me, expanding in my chest until I felt like I was choking on it. I didn’t think, I just spoke. “Come home with me.”

His eyes widened. “I-are you sure? I have flight to California soon, few hours or so.”

I swallowed hard. I couldn’t let him slip away from me again. “Please. I need you to come home with me.”

Boris bit his lip. “I can buy new ticket.”

“Yes. Buy a new ticket.”

* * *

We left immediately after that, and soon we were back home. Immediately, Boris made a beeline for my room, making a big show of going through my stuff. “Why have I not seen this?” he exclaimed, clicking on the lamp on the bedside table to get a better look at my bookcase. “Look at this, like library! And, oh god, is that vinyl?” He grabbed a record, gazing tenderly a the cover. “Ah, there she is. Miss Mitski. How dare you keep this from me?”

“We just listened to that album like two hours ago.” I shut the door, afraid we’d wake Hobie with our noise.

“Yes, but vinyl! It hit different, you know? Entirely different sound.” He fell to his knees, fiddling with the turntable that sat on the bottom shelf. “We listen. Right now.”

“Boris, no. You’ll wake Hobie.” I took a seat on my bed, watching the flash of his hands, the curve of his back.

“Ah, I keep it quiet.” Suddenly, the album clicked to life, and he stood, swaying to the beat as the music played, Mitski’s voice crooning high and sweet. “Oh, she is like angel.” He came to sit beside me, looking enchanted. “Just listen, Potter. She holds secrets to life.”

We stayed like that for a long time. Every so often, his shoulder bumped against mine as he swayed from side to side, smiling softly to himself. I could almost believe he was high, but I knew he wasn’t. It was simply the bliss of experiencing music in a new way, like hearing a song live instead of through worn out speakers. I couldn’t stop staring at him, and I didn’t care. He was practically glowing.

“Oh, my song!” He went to stand in front of the bookcase, as if trying to envelope himself in the sound. “Listen, Potter. As if she was angel, watching over us in Vegas, making song of what she saw.”

_Down empty streets, sniffing glue, me and you._

_ Blank open eyes, watch the moon flower bloom._

Warm nights under the stars, limbs splayed, baring our souls. I stood and went to him.

_It’s been a long, hard twenty-year summer vacation._

_ All these twenty years, trying to fill the void._

I grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him to me, kissing him hard. He tasted sweet, like strawberries.

_Crack baby, you don’t know what you want,_

_ But you know that you had it once,_

_ And you know that you want it back._

He moaned against my mouth, fingers tangled in my hair. There it was, the desperation I had been expecting in Antwerp.

_Crack baby, you don’t know what you want,_

_ But you know that you need it,_

_ And you know that you need it bad._

Clothes falling to the floor. I was on top of him. I had no memory of us falling onto the bed, but it scarcely mattered. His heart pounded beneath my fingers, and I kissed him there. He was whining beneath me, squirming, aching, but I took my time. I was going to savor this.


	3. Chapter 3

I still had nightmares. Not as often as they once were, but every now and then I would awaken in the dead of night, gasping, reaching out blindly, sometimes for my mother, sometimes for Boris, sometimes for someone or something that existed just beyond the edge of my memory. I was usually pretty good at calming myself down, but tonight was especially horrific. I sat straight up, panting, disoriented, feeling as if I had been dropped into an alien world, full of thick, heavy smoke that threatened to choke me. Something was wrong. My mother was supposed to be here. Where had she gone?

“Shh, Potter.” I felt a warm hand tugging my arm, pulling me down. “Hush. Come here.”

That voice. I would always know it, even in death. Relief coursed through my veins, and I lay back down, burying my face in Boris’ chest, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Shh, hush.” He ran his fingers through my hair, eyes closed, barely conscious. “Is just me, Potter. Is just me. I got you.”

Slowly, evenly, I counted my breaths, trying to focus on the steady beating of his heart as I willed myself to calm down. “Boris,” I tried to say, but it came out as a whimper. I hated how weak I sounded, how, even now, years later, I was still at the mercy of my own mind.

“Is me, Theo. Am here.”

Hearing my name, my real name, grounded me, and I felt my breathing begin to slow. As I ran my hand across his chest, I felt like a blind man, reaching out for something, anything to hold onto as I felt myself teeter off balance. “Tell me something nice.”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

He was quiet for a moment, fingers tugging gently at my hair. “I did not tell you, we found kitten in Brazil. After whole thing with feral cats in Spain, was not too keen on cats, but this girl, so little, would never hurt a fly. Undernourished. Shirley and Gyuri had fit when they saw her. Took her to vet, got her all patched up. No mama, no owner, what were we to do? Of course we took her in.”

That made me smile. “You have a cat?”

“Well, kind of.” He ran his fingers down my back, making me shiver. “We take turns with her. Miriam has her now. Is Vitya’s turn next.” He chuckled. “He tries very hard to convince us he hates her, but he loves her more than anyone else, except maybe Gyuri. He bought cat tree for her to climb, and all kinds of treats from gourmet pet bakery. But Vitya, something changes in him when he sees her. She makes him better person.”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Okay?”

“Pumpkin.”

I laughed, harder than necessary, perhaps. It was so utterly improbable, and so entirely Boris.

“I told you not to laugh!” he said, pinching my side. “Was not my idea! Shirley named her, for her color, you know. She is orange, and round, like pumpkin.”

I pictured it, Boris and his ragtag group of criminals cooing over a plump, orange cat, and I started laughing again.

“Stop laughing! She is good cat.”

“It’s not that. It’s…I don’t know, it’s cute.”

Without even looking, I knew he was scowling. “What’s cute?”

“You are.”

“Am not.”

“You’re adorable.”

He pinched me again. “Am not!” he growled. “Fluffy bunnies are cute. Do I look like bunny to you?”

“Hmm.” I reached out, running my fingers through his hair. “Big dark eyes, fluffy hair-“

“Fuck off.” He shoved a pillow in my face, and I laughed, pulling away. We lay like that for a while, silent, backs against the mattress as we stared up at the ceiling, both of us lost in our own thoughts. It was peaceful, just like when we were children. “Thank you.”

He didn’t ask for what. Silently, he grabbed my hand and pressed a kiss to my knuckles.

I sighed, swallowing back the words that had crept into my throat, begging to be spoken into existence. “I just, I hate this. I just wish I wasn’t so fucked up, you know? I wish I could sleep, and wake up like a normal person. I hate being afraid of my own mind.”

“You and me both.” He ran his thumb over the back of my hand. “Is life, Potter. We can’t let it break us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Well.” I wasn’t actually sure what exactly I was apologizing for. “I don’t know. I’m just sorry.” Once the words were said, there was no stopping them. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for always waking you up in the middle of the night because of my goddamn nightmares, and I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to go with you to California, and I’m sorry for everything that happened in Amsterdam, and-“

“Theo.” He turned on his side to face me. “Listen, stop apologizing, okay? You don’t have to be sorry. You think I would be here if you weren’t best goddamn person I know? I hurt you so much, and still you lay there, looking at me like I am not fucking scumbag.”

“What?” The bitterness in his voice took me by surprise. “Boris-“

“No, please.” He pressed his fingertips to my lips, silencing me. “How can you lay here and think Amsterdam was your fault? It was goddamn shit show, all because of me. No, don’t look like that, is true. Never should have involved you. Should have been Vitya, or Gyuri. Hell, could have been anyone but you. But I was desperate, you see. So desperate to make things right, to have you back in my life, I was willing to risk your life for it.” He traced a finger along my bottom lip, looking almost close to tears. “I wanted to make you proud. I wanted to be someone worthy of making you proud. I thought if you were there with me, if you were part of it, you would see how hard I work to make things right.”

“Boris.” I swallowed hard past the lump in my throat.

“But I mess up. I mess up so much. And all I want is to keep you close. But every time I try, something goes wrong, and it’s bad, really bad. But, god help me, it just makes me want to pull you closer, to keep you safe. Am like grenade, thinking I can save you from explosion, but I pull you right in the middle.”

“Boris.”

“But that’s the thing. You are strong, strongest person I know. You don’t need me to keep you safe, but I need to know that you are. Every time I step away, I wonder if that is last time I will see you.”

“Boris.”

“I am addict, is true, and you are my best addiction. Drugs come and go, but you are my one constant. Is like coming home, seeing you. And every time, I expect it to be gone, long gone, but there you are. Your eyes go wide like you never expected to see me again, and you smile like I am best thing in the world. And it’s not fair for me to want that, but the way you look at me, no one ever looks at me like that. I didn’t think anyone was capable of being happy to see me until I met you-“

I kissed him, because he needed to stop, because I loved him so much, because every word was another dagger in my heart. He clung to me like I might disappear, which I found almost humorously ironic, considering how terrified I was by the idea of him leaving, slipping out of my grasp once again, leaving only this moment as a memory. “I wish you could stay.”

“I wish I could take you with me.”

The idea was unappealing to me, just as the idea of settling in to a life of routine was unappealing to him. We were star-crossed.

“Like Romeo and Juliet, eh?”

It was as if we shared one mind. I couldn’t help it, I started to laugh. I laughed and laughed, just like we had as children, drunk off our asses and howling with laughter by the pool, Popchyk glancing back and forth between us, as if afraid we had gone insane. I didn’t realize I was crying until he reached up to wipe away my tears. “What a goddamn situation.”

“Is one way to put it, yes.” He pushed my hair out of my eyes. “But hey, at least we have right now, yes?”

“We have to do something different, Boris. I can’t go months without hearing from you, wondering when I’ll see you again. We need a better system.”

“I agree.” He buried his nose in my hair. “Any ideas?”

“Monthly meet-up? We could spend the weekend together, catch up.”

“Yes, perfect. And you can see the gang. They talk about you all the time.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. “Will be hard, I won’t lie. But everything worth doing is hard. It will be worth it.”

* * *

I drifted off not long after that, and woke some odd hours later to the familiar din of the morning rush hour traffic, light streaming through the crack in the curtains as Boris snored quietly beside me. I lay there for a long time, simply watching him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight furrow of his brow, nearly hidden under his hair. I pushed it back, gently, careful not to wake him. The sight of him made me ache, and I couldn’t help but kiss him. I was still kissing him when he woke, and he sighed delightfully against my mouth. “Oh, this is nice surprise. Good morning, sweet boy.”

I melted, and, in lieu of a response, I pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him.

“Already?” He laughed breathlessly. “My god, Potter, you are insatiable.”

“Shut up,” I mumbled against his neck. I could do nothing about him leaving for California today, but I sure as hell wasn’t letting him go all in one piece. I planned on taking my time with him.

“No, really. Here I am, minding my own business, and suddenly I feel your lips on me. Planning to ravish me, are you, when I am barely awake?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

He chuckled. Then, like a gift, he opened his legs for me. “Go on, then,” he said, stretching his long limbs like a cat. “Have at me.”

I needed no urging. My mouth was on him almost before he was finished speaking, and I was rewarded with a sharp gasp. I loved seeing him like this. He was often desperate with me, wild, as if afraid I would disappear without warning, but I enjoyed taking my time with him. Slow kisses, wandering hands. I didn’t speed up until he begged me to, back arched, nails digging into my skin, and that’s when I gave in, giving him everything he wanted until he was practically sobbing with pleasure.

This time was no exception, and he cried out, fingers tangled in my hair as he made a mess of us both. “Oh, fuck,” he groaned, immediately collapsing back against the bed, laughing breathlessly. “Oh, sorry, dorogoi, but I suppose you did have it coming, eh?”

“Shut the fuck up.” I was smiling, though, as I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand. “God, you suck. I don’t know why I like you so much.”

“Actually, if I'm not mistaken, it is you who sucks, no?”

I kissed him, mostly to shut him up, but also because, no matter what, I just never felt close enough to him. I finished myself off, and gasped against his mouth as I came, shivering hard. “There. Now we’re even.”

“Well, one of us needs to clean up this mess.”

Without looking away, I ran my hand down his chest, leaving behind a sticky trail. “I’ll leave that to you.”

“Ah, you bastard.” He stayed where he was, however, just smiling in contentment.

“What?”

He reached up, wiping at the corner of my mouth with his thumb. “Just admiring view, is all. You’re pretty like this. Have I told you that?”

“Whatever.” I buried my face in his neck, hiding the flush that had steadily risen in my face.

“No, is true. Have always thought so.” He ran his fingers up and down my back, humming quietly to himself. “Is nice, us being here like this..”

“Yeah.” I swallowed hard against the sudden threat of tears. I wasn’t going to cry about it, not anymore. It would hurt when he left, it always would. But he would be back, and that was what mattered. “I think so too.”

Boris sighed, ruffling my hair. “Well, I suppose I should take shower.” He flashed a devilish grin. “Is awfully roomy in there. Could easily fit two people, if one felt so inclined.”

I rolled my eyes. He had never been one for subtleties. He got up to get the water running, and I watched him dress, certain that there was nothing in the world as beautiful as he was. I followed him to the bathroom, and we stayed in there until the water began to run cold. Hobie was certain to be less than thrilled, but I couldn’t help myself. I spent half the time simply running my fingers through his hair, shampooing and rinsing, the water running from foamy white to clear. I worked on his body next, pouring the soap directly into my hands, running them across his chest, his back, his legs. I pressed a kiss to his collarbone, and I felt his nails dig into the small of my back. It hurt, but it was a nice kind of pain, like a deep-tissue massage. As we dried off, I could feel his eyes on me, and when I looked up, he was staring, as if trying to memorize every detail of my face. Without a word, he dropped his towel and wrapped his arms around my waist, nose buried against my shoulder.

I pulled him close. “You really don’t have to leave, you know. You could stay for a little bit.” I was mostly talking to myself. I knew what his response would be.

He shook his head. “I can’t, Potter. You know this. It would be too much like lying, not just to you, but to me as well. I can’t be the kind of person you need me to be, and, well, how to say this? It will sound so bad, but please, just listen. You can never be the person I wish you could be. No, don’t look like that. I only mean, look. The things I do, is who I am. And I know you hate it, this life I have made for myself. Hush, Potter, just listen. I know you hate it. I saw it in your eyes in Amsterdam, and I see it in your eyes now. You will never be like me, no matter how much I wish you would. We need only be who we are. I am criminal, and you are artist. Don’t make that face, you are. You know you are. I see what you do. You are like Hobie, with your eye for pretty things and perfect fits.”

“I’m nowhere near as good as Hobie-“

He waved away my protest. “Yes, well, everyone starts somewhere, and you have best teacher in New York, maybe all of America. I guess, well, what I am saying is, you belong here. This is where you must be, so you can grow, become best version of you. And me, I have to roam.” He sighed, looking incredibly sad. “I have to, Potter. I was never meant to stay in one place for too long. It was something I resented as a child, always moving, never having any ties, never making any friends. Until I met you. I met you, but the need remained, to roam, to always be moving. I couldn’t stay in one place for too long, but wouldn’t you know it? You left first. It felt almost poetic in its irony. Here was boy I adored more than anything, and he had to leave. Not me, but him. Is funny, no?”

It wasn’t, but I laughed anyway. It was the only thing I could do.

“We can only be as we are, Potter. And there are people, you know, people that depend on me. If nothing else, I do this for them.”

“I love you.” The words were out of my mouth without a thought. I was suddenly very aware of myself, almost outside of myself, looking on as the words that had been on the tip of my tongue for the past nine years came spilling out, like water through the cracks of a dam.

He looked at me then, and I felt tears prick at my eyes. No one had ever looked at me like that, like they understood. Threading his fingers through my still-wet hair, he said, “I know. Of course, I know. How could I not? When you love, it is with every part of yourself. You glow with it. I see it when you speak of Hobie, and your Pippa.”

“Boris-“

“Am so sorry I couldn’t say it. The words were there, right on my tongue, but they would not come. That night, when you left, I wanted so bad to say it, but I was scared. So, I kissed you instead. I had hoped it would say everything.”

“Boris-“

“I love you.” He looked desperate, as if he thought God would strike him down before the words came out. “I love you. Of course, I love you. How could I not? You are part of me. When I am with you, I am understood, and is that not what everyone wants? To be understood? You know me better than I know myself.”

The tears were flowing freely now. I said nothing, merely buried my face in his hair. I had learned a long time ago that, sometimes, there weren’t enough words. So I held him, and he held me, and we loved each other. It wouldn’t last, and it hurt. It hurt more than anything in the world. But he would be back, and I would be here, and, like the moon eclipsing the sun, we would see each other again. I would be understood, and so would he.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so our boys achieve their own personal nirvana, through mutual understanding. It's star-crossed and bitter sweet, but such is love. Thank you guys so much. Let me know what you think in the comments below!


End file.
